[ hp ] turn me into somebody loved.
turn me into somebody loved
narcissa black, james/narcissa.
marauders era!au. it doesn't matter anymore, really. they'll never get it right.
it starts when he mishears her name and calls her narcissist in fifth year. it shouldn't matter much, really, except - except he is the boy with the bright eyes and the obnoxious mouth and she's always had a thing for idiotic bastards. (or so bella had said; she'd held up the example of her first fling, then her second, and when cissy tells her of the reckless gryffindor, bella laughs until her stomach aches and tosses her an apple.)
and it escalates from there.
.
he has to look twice before he really sees her. and even then, they both just stare at each other, and at the hiding space they've both claimed as their own. he breaks first, "what are you doing here, black?"
she looks at him, then crosses her legs. her skirt rides up a little (okay, a lot) and james pretends not to notice. "sorry," she says, "i don't speak to blood traitors." but the fight is gone from her voice and she's thinking of war and the word pureblood and the name malfoy, and it does not come off as sharp as she means it to be. so when james sits down beside her, she is only a little surprised.
"great! i don't speak to self-absorbed harpies, so it's all good, then."
her pale brows rise at the lame comeback, but she says nothing else.
.
she begins to take refuge in the little place she's (shared with the potter boy) called her own when the word war lingers like smoke over their heads; she begins to take refuge in his lame jokes and his brightbrightbright smile (and sometimes she thinks she's in love with his smile, and this is preferable to the other option); she begins to take refuge in the way he's stopped looking at her like she's dirt and scum (and less-than-Evans) and started looking like her like the words gryffindor and slytherin don't mean anything.
and he doesn't listen a lot to her, only when it pertains to him, but she likes hearing his voice - likes hearing about something other than marriage.
it becomes a recurring incidence, her and james, in that little place she calls theirs. (narcissa refuses to call it a routine.)
.
"you know, when i said, 'accio hottie,' i didn't expect it to work!"
pause. turn. startled choking noise.
"sh - didn't know it was you, nar -"
"you must not be a muggle, because you cast a spell on me."
eyebrows raise. challenging smirk.
"… would you like a butterbeer? it's a portkey. next thing you know, we'll be back at my place."
"hmm, well, a couple nights with me and moaning myrtle will have to get a new nickname."
surprised laughter. smile. repeat.
.
their first kiss is clumsy, with teeth crashing and noses bumping, and it's not entirely voluntary, but they get better at it.
.
"i saw him with the mudblood girl at hogsmeade," bellatrix says, sneering over in the direction of the gryffindor table, "and he's a pureblood." this doesn't hurt. narcissa grips the edge of the table, pretends not to care. (she's good at that, or so james had said.)
the thing is, it wasn't supposed to be this way. she's the one in slytherin - she's the one who can craft daggers out of words and lace her voice with poison that can bring people to their knees. she isn't supposed to be the one who gets attached. (but it hurts, the way he looks at the girl-who-isn't-a-pureblood, at the girl-who-isn't-her, and it's getting difficult to hold up the pretence.)
so she just smiles over at him in the way bellatrix would do to one of her lovers, and keeps pretending.
.
but.
but he is breaking her, in increments.
"are you mad?"
she blinks, once, twice, before rearranging her expression into something resembling calm and composed - or at least, this is what she aims for. (she isn't as careful with him)
"what?"
he shifts, awkwardly peering up at her from behind his messy mop of black hair. he doesn't look her in the eye. "that i didn't ask you to the winter dance." (interhouse unity, the posters said, and her lips had twisted in this wry sort of smile that she shared with him.)
"oh," she clasps her hands together, fingers intertwining. she looks at him and says no, no she isn't mad; not about this, at least. she isn't mad, and it doesn't hurt. he looks ridiculously relieved, to the point where she contemplates hitting him over the head with her potions textbook.
she winds a thick clump of hair onto her fingers, bites her lip, "i have a date, anyways." narcissa feels james looking at her, but she doesn't turn her head. he is quiet, sulking for a good half hour, then he suddenly changes, a too-forced positive (because she cannot think of any other word to describe it) expression on his face. he inches closer. touches her fingers, her neck, her lips, her thigh, runs his fingers up her back and fingers her bra strap. she jerks away before he can unclasp it, and he looks extremely pleased with himself.
"i'm getting good at that," he says, proudly. (she can't stop thinking about who, exactly, he's been practising on, because it sure as hell isn't her.)
then, "who is it?"
"not telling."
"narcissiiiiist."
"… that's it, i'm leaving." and her tone has a teasing lilt to it, one she would have never learned to have, but he has taught her that. but his head still jerks up and his hand flashes out to hers in a motion that - that has never happened before. (he still doesn't look at her in the way she looks at him.)
"james?"
"you know, i would have asked you," he tells her, so quietly that she strains to hear, "you're beautiful."
his hand drops away. she leaves, not wanting to linger on his words.
.
"i think i would name my first kid james, the second."
"poor kid."
"i'm not the one named after narcissus. and what name would you give your kid, anyways? another constellation?"
"of course. it's tradition."
"screw that. you should name your kid something normal. like michael, or lawrence, or alfred -"
"i am not naming my kid alfred."
.
"narcissist."
"i thought i told you not to call me that. i mean, it's the end of sixth year. really, james?"
(but in truth -)
"it's catchy."
"it's immature."
"ciss. cissa," he tries out. she wrinkles her nose.
"that's what bella calls me."
"oh. uh." pause. "it isn't my fault your name has too many syllables."
"too hard for you, potter?"
he stops, grabbing her elbow and bringing her to a stop. she stumbles. "what -" she begins, scowling, but suddenly he is very, very close, so close that she can feel his breath fanning over her cheek.
(- she doesn't want him to stop.)
"tell me to give up on you."
she tries to break away, but he won't let her. it's the first time she hasn't been able to walk away. (he'd said he loved her, but she knew - she knew by the look in his eyes that he didn't, not in the way she wanted him to. not in the way he loved her.) narcissa turns her head sharply, long blonde hair falling over her shoulders. her book bag falls to her feet. "why?"
his fingers tighten. "because you're - you're getting married. after grad."
"and you're in love with -" he lets her go before she can say the name.
.
seventh year.
he has not visited their place in a long, long time now. she gave up after two weeks.
(and maybe the looks he gave her across the great hall had meant something. maybe the times he kissed her might have meant more than just a flimsy, not-relationship. maybe he did - does - love her, in his own way. because she was first.)
.
"i miss you," her breath is harsh, eyes squeezed shut, and it is very, very unlike her to be so disorganised and without composure but - but she cannot move on without him knowing this.
(it is not love. no; but it is a visceral ache in the depths of her ribs, running along her veins and shattering her bones, and she misses him - the boy with the beautiful smile; the boy that taught her how to laugh; the boy that called her narcissist; the boy that loved her.)
he stares at her. "black," he begins, but the girl with red hair calls his name from around the corner -
(- but he is long gone.)
.
"tell me to give up on you," she says later, in the hallway when it's just him and her. narcissa tips her chin up, the very image of composure, and waits to see if he plays along.
he does. "why?"
"because there's been talk of a war." she exhales, a shaky gust of air that rattles her. her fingers tremble. she doesn't break. "because i'm getting married." a step forward. "because i'm scared."
he kisses her, then, as if they were hidden away from the world, his knuckles trailing along her jaw, and she can't help but smirk a little, because she's taught him well. it ends much too soon and she thinks she can still feel his warmth lingering on her lips. "give up on me," he breathes, and releases her.
.
later, she will marry a man she does not quite love and give her firstborn child a name that means nothing to her.
(but she still breaks at the thought of metaphorical apples.)
narcissa black, james/narcissa.
marauders era!au. it doesn't matter anymore, really. they'll never get it right.
it starts when he mishears her name and calls her narcissist in fifth year. it shouldn't matter much, really, except - except he is the boy with the bright eyes and the obnoxious mouth and she's always had a thing for idiotic bastards. (or so bella had said; she'd held up the example of her first fling, then her second, and when cissy tells her of the reckless gryffindor, bella laughs until her stomach aches and tosses her an apple.)
and it escalates from there.
.
he has to look twice before he really sees her. and even then, they both just stare at each other, and at the hiding space they've both claimed as their own. he breaks first, "what are you doing here, black?"
she looks at him, then crosses her legs. her skirt rides up a little (okay, a lot) and james pretends not to notice. "sorry," she says, "i don't speak to blood traitors." but the fight is gone from her voice and she's thinking of war and the word pureblood and the name malfoy, and it does not come off as sharp as she means it to be. so when james sits down beside her, she is only a little surprised.
"great! i don't speak to self-absorbed harpies, so it's all good, then."
her pale brows rise at the lame comeback, but she says nothing else.
.
she begins to take refuge in the little place she's (shared with the potter boy) called her own when the word war lingers like smoke over their heads; she begins to take refuge in his lame jokes and his brightbrightbright smile (and sometimes she thinks she's in love with his smile, and this is preferable to the other option); she begins to take refuge in the way he's stopped looking at her like she's dirt and scum (and less-than-Evans) and started looking like her like the words gryffindor and slytherin don't mean anything.
and he doesn't listen a lot to her, only when it pertains to him, but she likes hearing his voice - likes hearing about something other than marriage.
it becomes a recurring incidence, her and james, in that little place she calls theirs. (narcissa refuses to call it a routine.)
.
"you know, when i said, 'accio hottie,' i didn't expect it to work!"
pause. turn. startled choking noise.
"sh - didn't know it was you, nar -"
"you must not be a muggle, because you cast a spell on me."
eyebrows raise. challenging smirk.
"… would you like a butterbeer? it's a portkey. next thing you know, we'll be back at my place."
"hmm, well, a couple nights with me and moaning myrtle will have to get a new nickname."
surprised laughter. smile. repeat.
.
their first kiss is clumsy, with teeth crashing and noses bumping, and it's not entirely voluntary, but they get better at it.
.
"i saw him with the mudblood girl at hogsmeade," bellatrix says, sneering over in the direction of the gryffindor table, "and he's a pureblood." this doesn't hurt. narcissa grips the edge of the table, pretends not to care. (she's good at that, or so james had said.)
the thing is, it wasn't supposed to be this way. she's the one in slytherin - she's the one who can craft daggers out of words and lace her voice with poison that can bring people to their knees. she isn't supposed to be the one who gets attached. (but it hurts, the way he looks at the girl-who-isn't-a-pureblood, at the girl-who-isn't-her, and it's getting difficult to hold up the pretence.)
so she just smiles over at him in the way bellatrix would do to one of her lovers, and keeps pretending.
.
but.
but he is breaking her, in increments.
"are you mad?"
she blinks, once, twice, before rearranging her expression into something resembling calm and composed - or at least, this is what she aims for. (she isn't as careful with him)
"what?"
he shifts, awkwardly peering up at her from behind his messy mop of black hair. he doesn't look her in the eye. "that i didn't ask you to the winter dance." (interhouse unity, the posters said, and her lips had twisted in this wry sort of smile that she shared with him.)
"oh," she clasps her hands together, fingers intertwining. she looks at him and says no, no she isn't mad; not about this, at least. she isn't mad, and it doesn't hurt. he looks ridiculously relieved, to the point where she contemplates hitting him over the head with her potions textbook.
she winds a thick clump of hair onto her fingers, bites her lip, "i have a date, anyways." narcissa feels james looking at her, but she doesn't turn her head. he is quiet, sulking for a good half hour, then he suddenly changes, a too-forced positive (because she cannot think of any other word to describe it) expression on his face. he inches closer. touches her fingers, her neck, her lips, her thigh, runs his fingers up her back and fingers her bra strap. she jerks away before he can unclasp it, and he looks extremely pleased with himself.
"i'm getting good at that," he says, proudly. (she can't stop thinking about who, exactly, he's been practising on, because it sure as hell isn't her.)
then, "who is it?"
"not telling."
"narcissiiiiist."
"… that's it, i'm leaving." and her tone has a teasing lilt to it, one she would have never learned to have, but he has taught her that. but his head still jerks up and his hand flashes out to hers in a motion that - that has never happened before. (he still doesn't look at her in the way she looks at him.)
"james?"
"you know, i would have asked you," he tells her, so quietly that she strains to hear, "you're beautiful."
his hand drops away. she leaves, not wanting to linger on his words.
.
"i think i would name my first kid james, the second."
"poor kid."
"i'm not the one named after narcissus. and what name would you give your kid, anyways? another constellation?"
"of course. it's tradition."
"screw that. you should name your kid something normal. like michael, or lawrence, or alfred -"
"i am not naming my kid alfred."
.
"narcissist."
"i thought i told you not to call me that. i mean, it's the end of sixth year. really, james?"
(but in truth -)
"it's catchy."
"it's immature."
"ciss. cissa," he tries out. she wrinkles her nose.
"that's what bella calls me."
"oh. uh." pause. "it isn't my fault your name has too many syllables."
"too hard for you, potter?"
he stops, grabbing her elbow and bringing her to a stop. she stumbles. "what -" she begins, scowling, but suddenly he is very, very close, so close that she can feel his breath fanning over her cheek.
(- she doesn't want him to stop.)
"tell me to give up on you."
she tries to break away, but he won't let her. it's the first time she hasn't been able to walk away. (he'd said he loved her, but she knew - she knew by the look in his eyes that he didn't, not in the way she wanted him to. not in the way he loved her.) narcissa turns her head sharply, long blonde hair falling over her shoulders. her book bag falls to her feet. "why?"
his fingers tighten. "because you're - you're getting married. after grad."
"and you're in love with -" he lets her go before she can say the name.
.
seventh year.
he has not visited their place in a long, long time now. she gave up after two weeks.
(and maybe the looks he gave her across the great hall had meant something. maybe the times he kissed her might have meant more than just a flimsy, not-relationship. maybe he did - does - love her, in his own way. because she was first.)
.
"i miss you," her breath is harsh, eyes squeezed shut, and it is very, very unlike her to be so disorganised and without composure but - but she cannot move on without him knowing this.
(it is not love. no; but it is a visceral ache in the depths of her ribs, running along her veins and shattering her bones, and she misses him - the boy with the beautiful smile; the boy that taught her how to laugh; the boy that called her narcissist; the boy that loved her.)
he stares at her. "black," he begins, but the girl with red hair calls his name from around the corner -
(- but he is long gone.)
.
"tell me to give up on you," she says later, in the hallway when it's just him and her. narcissa tips her chin up, the very image of composure, and waits to see if he plays along.
he does. "why?"
"because there's been talk of a war." she exhales, a shaky gust of air that rattles her. her fingers tremble. she doesn't break. "because i'm getting married." a step forward. "because i'm scared."
he kisses her, then, as if they were hidden away from the world, his knuckles trailing along her jaw, and she can't help but smirk a little, because she's taught him well. it ends much too soon and she thinks she can still feel his warmth lingering on her lips. "give up on me," he breathes, and releases her.
.
later, she will marry a man she does not quite love and give her firstborn child a name that means nothing to her.
(but she still breaks at the thought of metaphorical apples.)